Winter Garden

I am Petyr Andreyevich’s daughter, she thinks, and in that reclamation, she remembers the books her father had read to her at night, and the dreams he’d encouraged her to dream,

For the remainder of that week, Vera contemplates the discussion in the garden. At work she wanders around the library, walking amid the stacks with the ghost of her father beside her. She knows that all she needs is someone to help her understand the words she reads. It is as if she is a seedling, with a tender green strand pushing up through earth that resists her movement. The sun is up there, though, if only one keeps growing upward.

And then one day she is at the counter organizing parchment rolls when a familiar face appears. It is an aged man, walking with a cane across the marble floor, his tattered brown cleric’s robes trailing along behind him. At a table near the wall, he sits down and opens a book.

Vera approaches him slowly, knowing that her mother would not approve of her plan, but a plan it suddenly is.

“Excuse me,” she says softly to the man, who looks up at her through rheumy eyes.

“Veronika?” he says after a long moment.

“Yes,” she says. This man used to come by the house, in older, better days. She does not think to mention her father, but he is here between them, as surely as the dust. “I am sorry to bother you, but I seek a tutor. I haven’t much money. ”

The cleric removes his glasses. It takes him a while to speak, and when he does, his voice is barely more than a whisper. “I cannot help you myself. It is the times in which we live. I should stop writing. ” He sighs. “As if I could . . . but I know some students perhaps who are not so afraid as an old man. I will ask. ”

“Thank you. ”

“Be careful, young Veronika,” he says, putting on his glasses. “And tell no one of this conversation. ”

“This secret is safe with me. ”

The cleric doesn’t smile. “No secret is safe. ”

Fourteen

It was almost midnight when Meredith finally got home. Exhausted by the length of the day and yet captivated by tonight’s story, she fed the dogs, played with them for a while, then changed into a comfortable pair of sweats. She was in the kitchen making herself a cup of tea when a car drove up.

Jeff. Who else would it be at twelve-thirty?

She stood there, her hands gripping the sink’s porcelain rim, her heartbeat going crazy as the front door opened.

Nina walked into the kitchen, looking vaguely pissed off.

Meredith felt a rush of disappointment. “It’s past midnight. What are you doing here?”

Nina walked over to the counter, grabbed a bottle of wine, found two coffee mugs in the sink, rinsed them out, and poured two glasses full. “Well, I’d like to talk about the story, which is becoming pretty damn detailed for a fairy tale, but since you’re afraid of it, I’ll say what I came for. We need to talk. ”

“Tomorrow is—”

“Now. Tomorrow you’ll be armored up again and I’ll be intimidated by your competence. Come on. ” Then she took Meredith by the arm and led her into the living room, where she got a fire going by pressing a button.

Whoosh went the gas flames, and on came the heat and light.

“Here,” she said, handing Meredith a cup of wine.

“Don’t you think it’s a little late for wine?”

“I’m not even going to answer that. You’re lucky it’s not tequila, the way I’m feeling. ”

Nina. Always the drama.

Meredith sat on one end of the sofa, her back tilted against the armrest. Nina sat on the opposite end. In the middle, their toes brushed against each other.

“What do you want, Nina?” Meredith asked.

“My sister. ”

“I don’t know what you mean. ”